Pull down the rock n’ roll-up blinds. Let the music grow dark inside us, this nth power of light which only knows about the human body.

4

After the angel’s fall from the twelfth floor free fall has become an Olympic discipline. The development of rocket planes moves to the principle of an angel like helicopters. The angel whirlybird of airy propulsion starts from the territory of the dandelion.

The developments and destructions of peace culminate. Let’s hurry away from here, in this place there’s no time to change the world.

In a moment we’ll be awarded a Nobel for war and our poetic guts will in preference be used for sausages.

5

Words refuse to obey.

The poem splits and from it emerges a video-clip scenario…

Poetry avoids words. It abhors them.

A revolt against death will occur in the afternoon on the coast, in the event of bad weather it’ll take place at the pensioners’ club.

Take Baudelaire dead or alive.

9

Woman times man is almost three. The most domestic animal is a row-ptile. Poetic fabrics are getting cheaper.

We rationalize the ascent of concert wings.

We vote for Gigglewhite and her seven little smirks.

Even the leaves have yet to fall from the boulevard trees and we’ve already fallen for the snow. Grieved as a black man in winter I listen to the momentary heavy mental, monumental menthol, amen Ementhal.

15

Distorted humour enters the bay leaves on the poet’s head who wakes alert in the laurels. The legs of clocks and hands of insects arouse the snow in us.

This is the damage of normalization. There are these houses in the windows, trees on the branches and birds in feathers, everything about nothing and nothing about everything.

17

Torpedoes explode in frozen blood. Under their surface we detect a conspiracy against love. In the spring gusts we set traps for ourselves.

Loves strikes us at the first contact at the speed of the bullet earth-air-water-fire. Weary of espionage in loosened hair we vanish silently like a shadow in rubber soles.

And you in the form of music drizzle into the darkness.

Mysterious as a sacred cravat on the neck of a hanged man you demonstrate where I pointlessly direct my gaze.

Incomprehensible as a thirteenth chamber in a two-room state apartment you’ll explain everything once and also blame me.

The little flame in the dusk of loneliness gets stronger. Hurrah, it burns! A person on the border of his opportunities. Hurrah. It burns.